


Home

by FleetingDesires



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Relationship Negotiation, Sexual Tension, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27525772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetingDesires/pseuds/FleetingDesires
Summary: "Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft had said. But two years away, and he may as well have died in that fall off the roof of St Bart's. Baker Street was no longer synonymous with home.On impulse, Sherlock sends a text to Mycroft.Can I stay with you for a while? SH
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 79
Kudos: 125





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> For maximum feels: [You & Me – Eliza Doolittle](https://youtu.be/PoGb7Y6sKPY)

"Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft had said.

But two years away, and he may as well have died in that fall off the roof of St Bart's. Baker Street was no longer synonymous with home. John had not stayed, nor had he returned; Mrs Hudson had fussed over him for all of thirty minutes, before growing angry at him. Even Lestrade, the most welcoming of the bunch, had clearly been thrown off-kilter by his return.

He had thus far spent two long weeks at 221B, his brother keeping him company in the evenings. Two weeks in which the only measure of proper sleep he had gotten was when Mycroft had slept on the couch. Two weeks in which he saw no one else, and no one else came to see him. Not the people who once claimed to be his friends, nor clients at his signature address — though the latter could be excused, for obvious reasons. Who would consult with a dead man? Distrust and solitude had been his constant companion for so long that it no longer bothered him, but it was disconcerting to find that he did not return to the same life that he had left behind.

His days had been spent in contemplative silence. After two adrenaline-filled, buzzing years, he appreciated the chance to simply let down his guard, take stock of himself, and for once in his life, found himself at peace with having nothing to do but sort through his mind palace. After all, he had barely had the chance to do it whilst on the run, and there was much to delete now that the entire Moriarty business was concluded. Still, too much solitude was bad for anyone, genius or no, and he was grudgingly grateful for Mycroft's house calls.

So. Everything in London was different; his new old life was different. It was apropos, for Sherlock was different, too. He had been given what he thought he wanted: a life filled every day with deducting and investigating and chasing, never being bored for a moment, utilising the fullness of his intellectual capacity at every turn. He knew well that there were few people in the world that could have taken down a sprawling international criminal network by themselves, his brother being one of them, but instead of pride, all he felt was tired.

Yes. He was tired. Of deceit and the crimes it engendered; of existing on the razor's edge between life and death with only his wits to ensure he landed on the right side of the divide; of being alone in a city of millions.

But even as he thought this, he knew that he had never truly been alone. With Mycroft on the scene he was assured of it. It wasn't until he escaped his brother's constant supervision that he realised how much it had been a comfort to him, to know that he would always have a safety net in Mycroft. Even if they often disagreed on Mycroft's methods or outcomes, he now found it impossible to deny that the only times he had felt safe in the past two years was when he held one of Mycroft's letters in his hands. Oh, it was always about coordinates this, objectives that, but the solid proof that he was still in the background was sometimes the only thing that helped him to face the day.

Not much different from how he was presently feeling, really. On impulse, he picked up his phone.

_Can I stay with you for a while? SH_

The reply came a full minute later. _Why? - M_

Sherlock gnawed on his lip. It was barely something he could admit to himself, let alone to Mycroft. So instead, he merely responded: _Why not?_ _SH_

After a few moments, he received: _Well, alright. Do try to use the proper entrance, would you? - M_

Sherlock gave no response, setting his mind instead to cataloguing and packing the items he wanted. It was perhaps unsurprising that he could fit it all into a duffel with room still to spare – he had lost all attachment to most of his worldly possessions. Besides his clothes (oh, and wouldn't Mycroft have something to say about how he was currently squishing his tailored Armanis at the bottom of the bag…) the only things he took were Yorick and a small sheaf of papers off his work desk. His violin was, of course, put into its own case for travel.

He didn't spare a moment to look back on the remaining detritus of his life as he firmly shut the door on 221B. As he stepped out on the street, he allowed himself one cleansing breath before he hailed a cab, and sped away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some bits adapted from _The Empty Hearse_ , because it's fun to have alternate timelines converge.

Less because he was asked to, and more due to the fact that he had his violin with him, Sherlock used the key that he had always had to enter Mycroft's townhouse. He whirled around as a small security panel beeped at him. _CODE?_ It asked.

After several attempts, he gave up. There was insufficient data to come to an educated guess. He merely shot a text off to Mycroft and the beeping stopped before he had reached the door to his room. He makes the bed after pulling linens from the closet and setting it up as he likes, while Yorick is situated on the bureau next to the bed. The rest of his things….he'll deal with them later.

Dinner that night was a quiet affair. It seemed that neither of them quite knew how or when to broach the elephant in the room, that is, _why_ Sherlock was sitting in Mycroft's dining room silently eating his food. He could feel Mycroft's eyes straying to the side of his face every so often, but gave no indication of having noticed it. Finally, as they finished their food, Mycroft said, "Join me for a drink."

Sherlock nodded, following Mycroft to the parlour. He couldn't help but be reminded of all the times the coffee table had been papered over with various plans and schemes to defeat Moriarty, sat next to Mycroft arguing and debating and planning to account for every eventuality. As he sat on what had then become _his_ side of the couch, he was also reminded that many of those nights ended in one or both of them asleep where they sat. He espied the afghan that had kept a Holmes' sleeping body warm, and now draped the familiar, comforting fabric over himself as Mycroft handed him a drink.

Mycroft's lips twitched upward a tick as he looked at Sherlock. After sipping at their drinks for a few quiet moments, he said gently, "Why are you here, little brother?"

Sherlock twisted his head to the side, resting his temple on the side of the cool glass in his hand. He looked keenly at Mycroft, giving him a slow once-over, wondering how much to disclose. He met Mycroft's eyes, whose pupils were dilated (naturally, as they were sitting in dim light), briefly pausing at his lips, but let his gaze fall, tracing the line of his neck, down to his exposed clavicle, coming to a rest in his lap, where Mycroft held his own whisky glass. He looked pensively at it for a while, before facing forward again with an unconscious lick of his lips.

Finally, he said, "Baker Street was an integral part of my old life, but it feels different now. Perhaps it is because I am no longer the same man that once lived there. I don't know if I want to be. In any case, it no longer feels like home."

"Well, you are welcome here for as long as you wish, though I'm not sure if I should be concerned about the effect your…travels have had on you. Not to put too fine a point on it, but would you wish to speak to a psychologist?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I haven't changed quite that much, brother. No. Have you any idea the mess a mind palace can be when it hasn't been tended to in two years?"

Mycroft grimaced. "It can be an unbearable mess even after a particularly long day."

Sherlock pointed at him triumphantly. "Exactly." After a beat, he added, "Say, have you got the Operation game here?"

He blinked. "You wish to play it _now_?"

"We can't very well just sit here and drink ourselves into a stupor."

Mycroft nodded, finishing his drink before leaving the room. Sherlock took the chance to finish his own, topping up both their glasses, as he waited. To his surprise, Mycroft returned bearing a beaten up copy of the game, setting it up on the coffee table.

"This is our set from the old home," Sherlock stated, looking intently at Mycroft who had, so far, not met his eyes.

"Yes," Mycroft said, a faint blush curiously colouring his cheeks. "Mummy wanted to throw it and the rest of our board games out when they moved into the cottage, so I saved them."

A little afraid to ask, he forged ahead nonetheless. "Why?"

Mycroft fussed with the pieces before replying. "I had never been as disdainful of you as I led you to believe." Mycroft met his eyes with some undefinable emotion as he reached out a tweezer.

Enthralled, he locked his gaze with Mycroft's, reaching out blindly to take the proffered tweezer. Though it wasn't scientifically possible, he would have sworn that he felt a static zing travel down his arm when he brushed his fingertips accidentally against Mycroft's; from the look of surprise and blink, he deduced that Mycroft must have felt the same. At the same time, they averted their eyes towards Cavity Sam.

They made vague conversation over the operation pieces, trying to find their way through this uncharted territory, until– "Oh, bugger," Mycroft exclaimed, as Cavity Sam's nose lit up.

The brothers were sitting elbow to elbow by this point, each needing to get closer to the board for maximum dexterity. "Can't handle a broken heart, brother mine?" Sherlock teased.

"Don't be smart, Sherlock. Where would I have acquired a broken heart?"

"Oh, I don't know. I _have_ been away for two years."

"So?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a goldfish, though there are no signs of one in this house, therefore, broken heart."

"You really do need to get your brain checked for making such wild deductive leaps."

Sherlock leaned back and took a sip from his glass before realising it was nearly empty. How many had he had? He blinked, re-focusing on the conversation. "Hardly wild. Having me off your hands would have cleared you for some significant free time. Unless you don't go in for that sort of thing? Ever?"

Mycroft shot him a calculating look as he leaned back as well, now sitting shoulder to shoulder with him. "If real people seem dull even to you, can you imagine how _I_ feel? It's absolutely preposterous to think I might have a relationship with a goldfish."

He thought about the loneliness he had experienced on his travels, and realised that he had never felt that in London, because Mycroft was always there for intellectual sparring. Was that how Mycroft felt all the time, even in his own life? He thought about how his explorations weren't confined solely to dark alleys and seedy warehouses, about dimly lit bars and fumbling in the dark with nameless faces. Anything for a modicum of human connection to drive away the darkness he fought against in the day.

"No midnight liaisons? Some particularly handsome agent, or three? I would have gone for diplomat, but the probability of an attractive one is laughably low."

Mycroft's brows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Why, Mycroft, does sex alarm you? I didn't think you led as ascetic a life as I _once_ did."

Mycroft gaped at him as his cheeks coloured. Sherlock licked his lips and bit it, quirking a cheeky brow at him. Sherlock was reluctantly impressed when he spoke with a level tone, despite noticing his eyes briefly dipping to his lips. "I don't, so there's no use in trying to alarm me with that look, brother."

"So it wasn't alarm that caused your pupils to dilate just then? Hmm. Interesting." With that, Sherlock slid off the couch, putting down his empty glass in the process. "Goodnight, brother," he said, leaving a bewildered Mycroft sitting on the couch, alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock woke in a panic the next morning. Where the fuck was he, and why was his head so sore? Had someone drugged him? He looked around frantically, but relaxed as he took a closer look at his surroundings, recognising the silky sheets, the familiar room, Yorick nearby. As he sank back into the bed, memories of the night before flooded into his brain, and he rolled over to smush his face into the pillow. _He_ was the one that had drugged himself. With alcohol. And did _what_? He groaned.

After half an hour or so, he decided that there was no use in literally burying his head. He was far too hungover to come to any sort of sensible conclusion about how he felt about it, or how he wanted to deal with it.

He had only just swung his legs over the side of the bed when he realised that on the nightstand next to him sat a bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water. Well, then. Wasn't Mycroft lucky that he was no longer a spiteful bastard? He gratefully took the medicine before trudging out in search of breakfast.

After having some strong tea, scones, and truly amazing boysenberry jam (only the best for his brother, he smirked), Sherlock felt more up to the task of revisiting the events of the previous night. But where to begin?

Of course, he knew that he had always had a latent attraction to Mycroft since he knew what sexual attraction _was_. It was, in part, why he fought with Mycroft. The other part was just, well, Mycroft could be so damn smug and insufferable that _someone_ had to challenge him. Anyway, that was beside the point. The _point_ was, burying those, ugh, _sentiments_ , was easier when they were fighting, then not. Then came along Moriarty and he was forced to work alongside Mycroft if he wanted to have a shot in hell of outwitting him. He would cheerfully die before he admitted to another living soul that on nights where Mycroft fell asleep before he did, his fantasies got the better of him. He remembered the sense memory of the smell of day-old cologne mixed with Mycroft's own scent as he tucked the afghan around him. He remembered the tingling of his fingertips as he resisted the urge to brush the cowlick away from Mycroft's brow. He remembered the dread and the regret on that fateful day when it became clear that Lazarus, their last-ditch plan, had to be enacted. He remembered that in his weakest moments he had felt that he was fighting to get back to Mycroft, and stuff the rest of them.

What he had not remembered was any indication of _this_. Of Mycroft's reactions to him. Oh, the signs were nigh on unmistakeable. Any goldfish with eyes could have seen it.

Just then, his musings were interrupted by a buzz. _You'll have to fend for yourself tonight. A situation has developed at work. - M_

_Shame. SH_

_Is it? - M_

The reply came ten minutes later, which was….telling, he thought.

_I wouldn't have moved in if I didn't want to see you, brother mine. SH_

_Right. I'll be home when I can. - M_

Either there really was a work situation that demanded his attention, or Mycroft was sticking to his story, because he did not come home that night. Sherlock, having spent a large part of his day in his mind palace, was exhausted, cold in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature, and in serious need of rest, but what could he have done? It wasn't as though he could have told Mycroft that he had found it hard to get a good rest when he wasn't around.

Irritated, though he wasn't sure if it was at himself or at Mycroft, he decided to sleep in Mycroft's bed. Presumably, it would smell like him, and he hoped that it would be enough to trick his mind into feeling safe enough to shut down.

As he entered, it occurred to him that there was hardly a better time than now to snoop in his brother's things. After all, Mycroft was definitely not going to catch him in the act if he wasn't home. Cheerfully, he headed straight for the nightstands, and was intrigued to see that there were no kinky secrets to be found, or really, any evidence of a sex life. Ha. He smirked. Mycroft might have known he would rifle through his drawers, but the conspicuous absence of supplies might as well have been a flashing neon sign daring him to go find their new location.

Well, in the end, it was disappointingly easy to find. For all his jibes about being the British Government, there were no secret safes, false walls, or any of the typical hidey-holes in the vicinity of his bedroom. Perhaps Mycroft put too much faith in the thought that Sherlock wouldn't _possibly_ go through his underwear drawer (how commonplace). He scoffed at the hedonistic silk boxers as he rifled to the bottom, hitting pay dirt. Well, well, brother, what do we have here?

Sherlock grinned even as he felt his body warming up as he catalogued Mycroft's stash. Half a bottle of high-quality lube, a set of butt plugs, a curved vibrator, and – Sherlock's brain stuttered to a halt at this – a half-empty box of magnum condoms. Oh, _big_ brother must have a good tailor. Unless… well, there was hardly a point in speculating except to cause more of his blood to rush south.

Satisfied with his investigations, he snuggled into Mycroft's bed, ignoring his erection after briefly pushing it into the bed. He smiled to himself as he inhaled Mycroft's scent. He could wait.

The next day passed in much the same fashion, Sherlock having gone to sleep in Mycroft's bed again. However, the nightmares didn't leave him alone that night. His eyes flickered behind his eyelids as he was thrust back into Mumbai, near the beginning of his exile, the air hot and muggy as he skulked into a deserted port in the dead of night. He entered a dark building, hairs standing on end as he realised that there was no one around. _Shit. Had they been tipped off? But how?_ As he ventured deeper into the building, a dim light was visible as he turned a corner into a large room. Beneath it, a familiar figure was curled up, flecks of blood staining the concrete ground.

Sherlock scanned the room quickly as his heart raced. It seemed that no one else present, though...? _Fuck it, he can't leave him alone here._ He rushed forward, dropping to his knees. "Mycroft?" He whispered, gingerly crouching over him.

Now, he could see the full extent of Mycroft's injuries: the blood gushing out of multiple stab wounds, the bruised and broken face, the weak and thready pulse in his neck. Panicking, he turned Mycroft towards him and tried to stem the blood flow, trying to wipe away the image of Mycroft's blood pooled on the ground.

"Mycroft. You stay alive, you hear me? Hey. Don't fall asleep now, you lazy sod. Mycroft!" He tore strips from his own clothing as Mycroft lay weak on the ground. There were too many, too many wounds, how would he ever get to them all? As he frantically packed them, he was suddenly grasped round the shoulders. He hadn't even heard an approach! He thrashed wildly against it, desperate to throw his attacker off. There was no time for this. What sort of cold, heartless assholes would–

Sherlock woke violently, and was prevented from throwing himself off the bed by strong arms pinning him down. As the fog of the nightmare cleared, he recognised Mycroft. The grip on him softened as he sat up, throwing himself into Mycroft's arms. "Mycroft, Mycroft," he whispered, clutching on to him for dear life.

Mycroft had instinctively put his arms around him, rubbing his back in soothing circles. "Ssh, Lockie. It's alright. It's alright. You're home now. No one is going to hurt you while I'm right here. It's alright," he said, repeating his assurances as Sherlock's need to scream gradually abated and Sherlock relaxed his grip.

Sherlock held on as Mycroft made to move away. "Stay," he pleaded. "Stay with me."

Mycroft paused for a moment before replying. "Yes, alright. Lie down now, and try to relax so you can get back to sleep. I'll be with you shortly."

Sherlock was too wound up to protest, so he did as he was bid. He shifted so he faced the door of the ensuite, and concentrated on his breathing. Finally, Mycroft stepped through, wearing navy blue pyjamas that looked like it was made from silk, with a subtle striping shot through. Sherlock felt vaguely envious, but said nothing as Mycroft slipped under the covers, lying down to face him with an arm stuffed under his pillow.

"How are you feeling?" Mycroft said.

"Better." Sherlock shuffled closer and interlocked their ankles. That point of contact, more than anything, reassured him that Mycroft was here, solid and safe.

Mycroft rubbed his calf over Sherlock's. "Do you have nightmares very often?"

"More often than not these days, but they haven't been so vivid in a while. It's probably because I've just started to sift through large amounts of information in my mind palace that brought it on."

Mycroft frowned. "You haven't deleted the more disturbing bits of your travels?"

"There are a lot of them to work through, Mycroft," Sherlock rebutted irritatedly. Upon spying the pained look on Mycroft's face, he added, "It's just going to take some time, that's all. I'll be alright, so don't go calling a psychologist under pain of property destruction."

"Only if you promise to tell me if it doesn't get any better."

"Let's not pretend you're not going to be insufferably nosy about it anyway, so what's the point? Yes, yes, I promise," he drawled. "Besides, I was under the impression that _I_ was the one in need of comfort tonight. How did it happen that it's gone the other way around?"

"Well. I _am_ here. Can you get back to sleep now? I, for one, am bloody exhausted."

"Yes." He shuffled closer, his head now on the edge of his pillow. "Goodnight, Mycroft."

Mycroft looked at him for a while, before seeming to give up and closed his eyes. "Goodnight, Sherlock."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment you've all been waiting for... ratings upgrade to E ;)

It came as no great surprise to Sherlock that he had fallen into a deep sleep for the remainder of the night, or that he found himself awake before Mycroft. What _was_ surprising was finding that he was hugging an arm that was holding him in place against Mycroft's chest, and the slow, hot breaths against the nape of his neck. He steadfastly ignored the poke in his back, though it made his own morning wood ache. He closed his eyes again and tried to doze, luxuriating in the feeling, until he felt the rhythm of Mycroft's breath change.

Not daring to move, he simply held on to Mycroft's arm as he felt a sharp inhale of breath, swiftly accompanied by a twitch further below. He held on tight as Mycroft attempted to retrieve his arm.

When Mycroft jerked his hips away, Sherlock was having none of it, and quickly followed, pressing himself more firmly against Mycroft's erection. He felt Mycroft's heart pound in double time as he inhaled deeply. "What are you doing?"

"What I always do." Sherlock turned towards Mycroft even as his brother turned to lie face down on the bed, his body deathly still. He let his hand trail up Mycroft's arm to rest on his shoulder as he nudged his hip forward, letting his erection graze along Mycroft's side. "Exactly what I want."

"It'll pass," he gritted out, fisting his hand in Sherlock's t-shirt.

"It won't. I've been awake for half an hour. Feeling you against me."

Mycroft rubbed his forehead harshly against the pillow. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise…but we shouldn't. Surely you know that."

"All I know is that we are both hard and I'm aching. Tell me you aren't trembling because of the effort it's taking you to stay still."

Mycroft said nothing, even as his hand continued to flex on Sherlock's back. Sherlock took the chance to dive his hand under Mycroft's shirt, stroking his lower back along the waistband of his pants. "Please, Sherlock. We can't do this," Mycroft said breathily as a shiver worked up his spine.

"We absolutely _can_ ," Sherlock purred, as he slipped into Mycroft's pants, raking his nails sharply over his buttock. Mycroft jerked into the bed, a groan escaping. He finally raised his head to look at Sherlock, face flushed, his pupils blown wide. "Oh, fuck it," he growled, pouncing on Sherlock to pin him to the bed with a hard kiss.

Mycroft broke off with a gasp as he moved between Sherlock's legs, grasping him around the waist to haul Sherlock against him. He groaned again as he gave a few hard, delicious thrusts against Sherlock's own erection. "Is this what you wanted?" he demanded, fixing a dark gaze on Sherlock.

Sherlock could only nod as he yanked Mycroft's mouth back to his, exchanging frantic kisses as Mycroft continued to move against him. All thought fled his mind, except for one. He really wanted to get his hand on big brother. He insinuated a hand between them, all subtlety gone as he thrust his hand into Mycroft's pants, firmly gripping on to his hot, hard, and large cock. God, it felt amazing, and Mycroft's sharp groan of pleasure, combined with the thought of it inside him, drove Sherlock ever closer to release.

Sherlock held it against his own cock, running his thumb tantalisingly round and round the head of it, letting it bump up against the slit as Mycroft continued to move in the tunnel formed by his hand. He knew that Mycroft was close when he started to chant his name brokenly, and with a great effort he bucked his hips into Mycroft, spurring the both of them on.

Mycroft came shouting his name, shooting strong, hot loads of come across his shirt, as he gripped the pillow next to Sherlock's head. The sight of Mycroft losing control so spectacularly brought Sherlock to his own climax as well, rubbing against Mycroft as he locked gazes with him.

Sherlock continued to stroke him as they struggling to return their breaths to normal. Mycroft eventually dragged his hand away, pinning his wrist to the bed. He collapsed partially on top of Sherlock, sharing a pillow, as he dragged in ragged breaths.

Sherlock had to wriggle away just enough to toss his ruined shirt to the floor, but as he turned back to Mycroft, he noticed that his eyes were now open, an uncertain look in them.

"Well, it turns out we definitely could," Sherlock said flippantly.

"That's hardly the point."

"Well, I'd take your point, but you're going to need to let me catch my breath first, at least."

Mycroft, inexplicably, blushed. He sat up, tucking himself back in his pants as he leaned back on the headboard." _Sherlock_. Be serious. You cannot think this might happen again, much less what you're suggesting."

"You know, the goldfish have one thing going for them, at least. Their minds don't jump back to fighting form this soon after sex."

Mycroft raised a brow. "Well, then, do feel free to shag any number of them."

"I do, but at the moment I'd like to shag _you_. Come on, Mycroft. You can't deny that you want it, too. So what is it? What do I have to argue against? The law? Morality? Preservation of familial relationships?"

"Came prepared, have you?" Mycroft quirked a brow. "No. I know well enough that none of those will sway you. Truth be told, none of those arguments would sway me, either. I straddle the lines of law and morality everyday in far more consequential matters than a little passing contravention of a social taboo, and neither of us are poor actors." He paused to look at Sherlock searchingly. What he was looking for, Sherlock couldn't say. "What I am concerned with is the inescapable reality that sex complicates matters. To put it lightly, we have never had an easy relationship, at least not since we both passed the age of innocence. We're stuck together for life, brother mine. I'd rather not make it any more difficult than it has to be."

Sherlock blinked as he processed this unexpected objection. Well, he'd rather have a little of Mycroft, than not at all; finally, he said, "It seems to me that a casual arrangement would present little to no complication. It not like either of us are incapable of such a thing."

"Is that what you're after? A casual arrangement?" Mycroft asked quietly. He waved it away without waiting for a response. "In any case, you and I could never have the sort of boundaries that a casual arrangement would require. When I have to chase you around London again and plead with you to take better care of your own life, will you be able to tell if I'm speaking as your brother, or if I've crossed the casual boundary? You already resent me for the former, and I can't imagine it being any better for the latter."

"No," Sherlock admitted. "But where does that leave us?" He asked anyway, knowing full well the answer but not wanting to be the one to say it.

"Absolutely nowhere, brother mine. We can't always have what we want." Mycroft reached out to cup his cheek, his eyes following as his thumb traced his cheekbone.

Sherlock gripped his forearm gently. "Then give us a kiss before we have to acknowledge reality."

Mycroft looked conflicted for a moment, before he nodded. He leaned forward to cradle Sherlock's head with both hands, placing a dry, almost chaste kiss on his lips. He withdrew slightly, their noses brushing against each other, just enough to lock gazes. There's that undefinable emotion again, Sherlock had time to think, before Mycroft closed his eyes and came back for another kiss, and another, and another. Sherlock gave up thinking in favour of greedily hoarding every detail in his mind palace. The feel of his lips. The slight remnants of morning breath. The drugging sensation of Mycroft's tongue running against the roof of his mouth, behind his teeth, sliding against his. The sound of his soft whimper as he did the same to Mycroft. The unbelievable softness of his bottom lip as he nipped at it. More. The perfection of his head in Mycroft's hands. The fine fur on his forearms. The softness of the hair at the nape of his neck.

Sherlock chased after his lips when Mycroft finally drew away, but was stopped by the firm press of Mycroft's forehead against his. Sherlock took shaky breaths, feeling the air waft back from Mycroft's cheek, as he felt the same upon his own.

Gathering what little wit he had left, Sherlock slipped from Mycroft's hands, his bed, and with some heretofore untapped strength of will, left the room without turning back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half this extremely long chapter is just sexytimes.... why do I always do this.

To Sherlock's surprise, Mycroft doesn't run away, or hide in his work. He makes it home at about the same rate as he used to sleep on the couch and Baker Street, and Sherlock quickly deduces that Mycroft must not have been home very much in those two weeks. They don't talk about that fateful morning, or make any reference to it. If Sherlock didn't have a mind palace, or if he hadn't caught the occasional fleeting look from Mycroft, he could almost be convinced that he had made the whole thing up. But he wasn't the sort to be fantastical, anyway.

Sherlock's nightmares hadn't gotten better, so far. Though he was still deleting memories in the day, he often couldn't stomach doing too much at a time. He had thought himself inured to the cruelties that man could visit on another man, but having seen it in front of him, day after day, himself partaking in necessary violence, was a different matter altogether. The most horrific situations – being held captive, pinned down, tortured, watching temporary allies fall like flies – he found unable to delete entirely.High-functioning sociopath? He scoffed at his past self. Who could ever believe _that_?

As such, on nights that Mycroft didn't make it home, Sherlock would refuse to go to sleep. What would be the point? He already spent the day reliving horrors, and there was no need to do it in his sleep too. Instead, he would work through the night on his monographs, play the violin, or read his favourites from the eclectic selection of books Mycroft owned. There was plenty to do, things he had missed while he had traversed the gutters of the world. He now relished in the quiet bustle of London right outside the window, the crackle of a pleasant fire, and the distinct absence of a gun within arm's reach, or the need for one.

The nights that Mycroft _was_ home was a different story. They had settled into a routine of dinner, board games, and whiskey, although he limited himself to having just a single glass of the latter. It wouldn't do to forget, to get too comfortable, to relax too much. At first, Sherlock had tried to sleep in his own room, but either found that he was still awake two hours later, or been awoken by nightmares, whether he woke of his own volition, or looking into Mycroft's worried eyes. One such night, he had been so frustrated that it had overcome his hesitation, and he snuck into Mycroft's room, slipping into his bed while being careful not to disturb him.

No such luck, however. Mycroft's eyes flew open with a glare as his head hit the pillow, but it softened upon recognising him, turning into a look of confusion. "Nightmare," Sherlock explained. "Just go back to sleep."

After a beat, Mycroft sighed softly, then nodded and closed his eyes.

Sherlock woke to an empty bed after a dreamless sleep. He grinned, and sprang out of bed refreshed.

From that night on, thought he would start the night in his own bed, he never woke in his own. It was simply the most effective way of getting any rest, aside from drinking himself into it, he reasoned. They never discussed this aberration, either. After all, what was there to say about it, that had not already been said or deduced by the other?

While it was true that Sherlock slept better, it would be foolish to think the problem might have been solved simply by having Mycroft close by. There had been many nights where he was awoken from a nightmare only to gasp and shudder into Mycroft's chest, or on less serious occasions, only with a vague memory the next morning of hushed murmurs and a warm body at his back. Some mornings, after Mycroft's alarm blared to wake them both, he would swear that he had spent the remainder of the night intertwined in Mycroft, or find the spot immediately next to him still warm. He lived for the rare dreamless nights, for then he would be assured of waking before the alarm, and he could spend those precious minutes simply tracing Mycroft's features with his eyes.

Just as he had told Mycroft, as time wore on, the occurrences of his nightmares became fewer, and less severe. Still, he continued to sleep with Mycroft, who had never suggested otherwise, though they both knew it was no longer as seemingly necessary as it once was. These days, Mycroft would sometimes wake before his alarm, as well – likely because his sleep hadn't been constantly interrupted, thought Sherlock – and Sherlock had startled the first time he was caught looking. However, Mycroft had made no comment but to smile softly, his lashes looking almost auburn in the soft morning light.

For a while, that was all they did – gaze at each other from their respective sides of the invisible boundary line down the middle of the bed. Morning after morning, existing in amber, until, after a full nightmare-free fortnight, Sherlock crossed the line to turn off the alarm that would burst their morning bubble.

Mycroft blinked as Sherlock resettled on the bed, furrowing his brow.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but found that his words were stuck in his throat. They had never spoken in all this time, and the silence suddenly felt too thick and oppressive to break. He took a few moments to work past the cotton in his mouth, before saying, "The premise of your argument is flawed."

Clearly, this did not help matters, as Mycroft's furrows deepened. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your argument against us having sex was premised upon a historically difficult relationship. I think we've been doing pretty well recently. Thus, your premise is flawed."

Mycroft sat up warily, hugging his pillow to his chest as he rubbed at his eyes. "I wasn't expecting this conversation this morning," he muttered. After several breaths, his gaze sharpened as he turned fully towards Sherlock, now alert and with a too-familiar defensive air about him. "Alright. Well, that may be so, but my other premise surely still stands."

"Yes, that sex complicates matters. The blatantly obvious thing that we both failed to realise before, Mycroft, is that it isn't the act itself that is the complication. It's the desire for it, and the sentiments that often accompany it, that complicates matters."

"And this revelation advances your argument how, exactly?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Aren't we, right in this moment, already mired in its complications? How could acting on it possibly make it more complicated?"

"There is a distinct difference between desire and its consummation, evidenced by the fact that we're having this very conversation."

"You speak as though further complications might be avoided, but you haven't trusted the eyes in your head that must surely tell you they're unavoidable. I haven't tried very hard to hide that I'm in love with you, Mycroft."

Mycroft's lips parted in shock, as he blinked rapidly. "But– I– That can't be right. You've only just come home, and who knows to what extent your experiences have traumatised you. Surely you're mistaking the comfort you've derived from me for something else."

"I won't deny that being out in the cold has changed me, but it hasn't changed this. I was in love with you before, but I was too busy running away from you to think that you might feel the same. I buried it deep, but there were days that it was all I could do to go into my mind palace instead of buying the first plane ticket home to you. I know that I haven't mistaken the comfort for anything, because I remember nights as a child when you used to do the same thing for me, and my feelings about it now are worlds away from that."

Mycroft dipped his head as he clearly struggled to form a response. After a few moments, Sherlock placed a finger against Mycroft's lips. He peeked out at Sherlock from under his lashes hesitantly.

"Don't speak to doubt my words, Mycroft. In the past months I've put in a lot of time to work through the last two years of my life, and along the way, have tried to understand how it has changed me. This is a manifestation of one of them. Maybe my sentiment places me at a disadvantage, but I think I've proven myself capable of overcoming disadvantages. Besides, you and I aren't at war any longer. What do I need an advantage for? I only know that I don't want to regret not having said anything to you again."

Mycroft remained silent, moving only to pull Sherlock's hand away from his lips to hold it between his own, running a thumb over the back of it almost absentmindedly. He sat this way for several long minutes, before raising it to his lips again to kiss it. "I love you," he whispered as he looked at his hand, almost too softly for Sherlock to hear.

Sherlock stifled his sudden grin. He moved closer to Mycroft, and said teasingly, "I'm sorry? I didn't quite catch that."

"I said, I love you." Mycroft looked up from his lap to meet Sherlock's eyes.

""Well, thank god for that," Sherlock said nonsensically, knowing no other way to express his relief at the moment. He reached out to pull Mycroft closer by his neck. "May I kiss you now, and put an end to all talk of complications?"

"I would very much like that, but–"

"Oh sod it, Mycroft. Best laid plans, and all that. I just want you." With that, Sherlock planted a fierce kiss on Mycroft, who took a moment before kissing him back in equal measure.

Sherlock slowly pushed Mycroft back with the strength of his kisses, until Mycroft was comfortably leaned on the headboard. He moved to sit astride Mycroft's lap; however, before he could push his body more insistently against him, he took him by the jaw and said, "No more objections, Mycroft."

Mycroft's hands, now at his kips, kneaded at him as he thought, his thumbs in the crease at his thigh. Though he knew this to be a sign of mental distress, it was also slowly driving Sherlock mad. "I just need you to tell me that this isn't a casual arrangement."

"The absolute furthest from it," Sherlock reassured him.

Mycroft took a steadying breath, then said, "Then yes – no more objections."

No more words were said, as Sherlock tilted his head up for a kiss, canting his hips forward to establish solid contact between their erections. Mycroft's hands slipped under Sherlock's shirt to caress his body as their kisses grew more fevered, eliciting a groan when one slipped past his waistband to encourage the rocking of Sherlock's hips. 

Sherlock threw his head back, closing his eyes as he obeyed the silent command for a few unthinking moments. Abruptly, he stopped to fix Mycroft with a serious gaze. "I don't want to come like this. I need you inside me, Mycroft."

Mycroft's grip on him tightened. "I don't know if either of us has enough patience to prepare you properly right now."

"We'll just have to do our best." Sherlock tugged off his shirt before he started to quick undo Mycroft's. "Because I'm fairly sure I can't go much longer without it, brother." He threw open Mycroft's shirt, kissing and biting his way down his chest. Mycroft let out a soft groan as Sherlock twirled his tongue around one nipple, and then the other. He quickly made his way down his body, tugging at Mycroft's pants impatiently to reveal his large, leaking cock. He watched fascinated as he stroked the length with a feathery touch, spreading the next burst of precome all over the tip of it.

As Sherlock fixed his cock with a hungry look in his eye, Mycroft stopped him. "No, my dear. I'll never last if you get your mouth on me." He let out several shaky breaths. "Lie face down and let me prepare you." He reached over to his nightstand, retrieving a bottle of lube that was fuller than the one Sherlock had previously seen. Sherlock smirked into the pillow as he complied with Mycroft's instructions, pulling off his pants in the process. Clearly, his brother had been more affected by him during their cohabitation than he even realised.

His smirk faded as his mind came back to the business at hand. Mycroft had just settled between his parted legs, and was now kneading his buttocks, pulling them apart. To his surprise, he felt his hips being lifted off the bed, and instinctively assumed a kneeling position, where he could feel cool air drift across the secret parts of him. He shivered as Mycroft teasingly ran a dry finger around his pucker, letting out a surprised moan as it was immediately chased by what could only be Mycroft's tongue.

Sherlock could do nothing but burrow his head deeper into the pillow, alternately biting down and moaning as Mycroft took him apart with pleasure. His talented tongue circled round and round his entrance before finally pushing in, and he took his leisurely goddamn time to to slowly stretch him with his tongue, while his hand had ran between his legs to fondle with his balls and cock, pressing into his perineum.

He grew increasingly desperate as Mycroft began to stroke him firmly, in strong, even strokes. "What are you – _oh, god_ – Mycroft," he gasped out, unable to keep his hips from rocking into Mycroft's delicious fist. "I need– I want–" He panted harshly, reaching back to find Mycroft's free hand and move it to his hole. "Pleaseplease _please_ ," he moaned, trying to resist the urge to fuck roughly into Mycroft's hand, keeping it at a light pace.

Sherlock groaned in relief as Mycroft released his grip around his cock, and he managed a couple of deep breaths to cool his lust before he heard the _snick_ of a bottle cap. Mycroft must have taken some pity at his obvious clamour for control over his body, because he felt a firm hand trailing over his back, helping to ground him, his senses returning to him somewhat as he focused on the texture of the sheets under his arms and knees, the warmth radiating from Mycroft's skin where they were touching by ankles and calves locked against each other.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, the reprieve didn't last long. He felt a wet finger trail around his hole lightly. "Is this what you wanted?" He heard Mycroft ask in a low, husky voice. He shuddered as he felt the tip of his finger enter him easily, stimulating just his sensitive opening. He involuntarily clenched around him, before he remembered the point of the exercise and consciously relaxed again.

"Get on with it, Mycroft," he managed to grit out as he rocked back, trying to take more into himself.

Mycroft tsked. "Rude. And you asked so nicely earlier."

Sherlock swivelled his head to glare at Mycroft. He was completely under his mercy, and they both knew it. He cursed Mycroft's self-control, before enough of his brain cells were restored to come up with a plan to get what he wanted, as soon as humanly possible. "What I really want, Mycroft, is to ride your cock and tease you the way you're teasing me right now. So the sooner you stick your fingers in me, the sooner I can do that. How much longer do you want to wait before you can feel me clenching around you, Mycroft?"

He saw Mycroft's gaze darken, before he felt the rest of his finger slipping easily into him. "Oh, thank all the gods," he muttered, dropping his head to his chest again.

"Trying to break my self-control, brother mine?" He said, as he moved his finger slowly in and out of him.

 _Yes, and it's working._ "More, Mycroft. I'm not a blasted virgin."

Nails were raked across his back as Mycroft obediently inserted another finger along the first. "I'll have you forget about that," he growled.

"Primitive." He gasped as Mycroft crooked his fingers, unerringly finding the sweet spot inside of him. "Though I did want you to fuck my virgin hole, you know."

"Obviously not." Mycroft sped up his fingers, now working in a scissoring motion. "I'm not sure if I could have resisted if I did."

"It's probably for the best. I might have split myself in two with my impetuosity."

"It is rather a problem, sometimes." Sherlock felt a delicious stretch as a third finger was inserted, panting at the sensation. "I must be doing something wrong if you can throw a spelling bee word at me right now."

"Not anymore," he gasped, rocking back to chase for more of the fullness. His back arched as Mycroft teased his prostate again. Mercifully, he hadn't been torturing it, allowing Sherlock to retain some semblance of coherence. When he had adjusted to it, Sherlock added, "Surely I'm ready now, My."

"Not quite, but I'll take it as a cue." A burn travelled up his spine as the last of Mycroft's fingers entered him. "As you've pointed out, more prep is required in order to take me."

"How many times did it take you to figure that out?" Sherlock asked unthinkingly, anything to take his mind off the burn.

"Once was too many," was all Mycroft said, continuing his ministrations.

As the burn started to fade, pleasure creeping in, Sherlock reached back to stop Mycroft. "That's enough."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Lie down."

Mycroft obeyed, and Sherlock draped himself over him, kissing and stroking him back to full hardness. Finally, he spread a generous amount of lube over Mycroft's cock before sitting astride him once again.

Mycroft breathed harshly as his cock slipped between Sherlock's buttocks, sliding in his crack. His hands travelled over Sherlock reverently, moving to his buttocks when Sherlock had him positioned at his entrance and helpfully pulling them apart. He carefully sank down, closing his eyes in concentration as he took his brother in for the first time. Beneath his other hand, he could feel the strong, unsteady pounding of Mycroft's heart, and he dimly registered the uneven breaths emanating from the each of them. Burn, burn, burn, his mind chanted as he continued his slow progress, Mycroft's hands on him a steadying but bruising force. Sherlock bit his lip in silly satisfaction and let out a small whine when he felt Mycroft's cock twitch within him, as though it had a mind of its own and wanted nothing more than to be as deep within him as possible.Well, that might possibly be the case for its owner.

"What are you smiling at?" Mycroft managed to grit out, and Sherlock snapped his eyes open to see the tortured expression on his face.

"How badly do you want to thrust up into me right now?" Sherlock sank further down as he felt the answering twitch, while Mycroft scrunched up his brow.

"The word does not exist. You are incredibly hot and tight, and the way your body is gripping me, I can't think of anything else. And when I open my eyes and see you," – and at this point, he did so – "I cannot find words any less trite than to say that my heart feels like it might escape my chest."

They both groaned as Sherlock finally, _finally_ , seated himself on Mycroft. He panted softly as he tried to get used to the incredible fullness, looking down at Mycroft. Mycroft ran his hands soothingly over his body, grounding him as he fought through the pain and forced his body to relax.

After a while, he leaned forward to trade kisses with Mycroft, nipping gently at his lips to gain entrance before tangling his tongue with Mycroft's languidly. He retreated only as far as needed to comfortably look into Mycroft's eyes. "I love you," he whispered.

"My body and soul is yours. Take good care of it," came the whispered reply.

Sherlock nodded, sealing his promise with a kiss. Now he leaned back and with hands on Mycroft's thighs, started to move. The pain had now given way to a muted pleasure, but as he rolled his hips, the delicious drag of Mycroft's cock inside of him brought the pleasure to the forefront.

Throwing back his head, he closed his eyes as he unabashedly used Mycroft to chase his own pleasure. Mycroft's soft murmurs of praise and encouragement drove him further, elongating the rise and sink of his movements until finally, his eyes snapped open when Mycroft wrapped his cock in his fist.

"Welcome back," Mycroft teased. "I was starting to feel superfluous to this activity."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock grinned cheekily. "You just feel really good inside me."

Mycroft hummed. He sat up to hug Sherlock to him, and tweaked his nipple. "Let me drive. There's so much more to fucking than the slide of a cock inside of you."

Sherlock nodded, intrigued. "How do you want me?"

He was met with a wolfish smile. "Don't you worry your pretty head about it." Mycroft grabbed a pillow and placed it behind Sherlock's lower back, before using it to flip them over. Sherlock landed with a surprised _oof_ when his back hit the bed, as Mycroft laughed. "I'm a man of many talents."

"Yes, I see that," Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Mycroft. "And clearly a man of many lovers, as well."

"Just the one now. Don't be jealous, my darling. After all, it's for your sole benefit now." He hoisted Sherlock's knees on his shoulders before he thrusted in, deep and slow. Sherlock had never been a fan of this position, having always preferred those which allowed him more control over the proceedings, but now he saw the value in simply watching his lover tend to his pleasure. He could watch Mycroft groan as he looked between them to see his cock disappear into his arse, or relishing in having his hands pinned down by Mycroft's own interlinked with his. He could watch the ripple of Mycroft's muscles as he leaned forward to hover over Sherlock, and he could rear up to kiss him and let him invade his mouth, as well. As Mycroft smiled at him, he understood that his pleasure could come from giving, and not merely taking, pleasure, and he reached up to simply run his hand through Mycroft's hair just because it would please them both to do so.

It wasn't long before Mycroft's gaze started to cloud over, and he tugged Sherlock's hand on to his own cock, while he sat back to find an angle that relentlessly rubbed against Sherlock's prostate. Within moments, Sherlock was driven to the brink by his flying hand, Mycroft's skilful movements, and the intensity of the gaze they shared, the latter only broken when Sherlock came with a hoarse shout to the heavens. He heard Mycroft's own strangled groan even as he was still coming, as his lover climaxed hot and deep within him.

Mycroft let down his legs as he collapsed over him, burying his face in Sherlock's neck for a few moments before he lifted it to look at Sherlock, who, at this particular instant, was pretty sure he had a completely spaced out look of bliss on his face. He smiled at Mycroft, and said, "Hi."

Mycroft's eyes crinkled in humour. "Hello. How are you feeling?"

"Hmm. Full." Sherlock stuck his tongue in his cheek as he clenched his muscles down below. Before Mycroft could make to move away, he draped a leg over him. "But stay for a while anyway."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, before he seemingly let the issue go. "And otherwise?"

Sherlock smirked. "Looking for a performance rating?"

"Not exactly, though you've provided me with the answer I was looking for anyway." He dipped his head to kiss Sherlock softly. "Now, I really do need to move."

Mycroft slowly extracted himself, and a few moments later, Sherlock felt his come dribble out of him – but not for long, as Mycroft's fingers were– " _Mycroft!_ " Sherlock gasped, scandalised.

Despite his protestation, Sherlock tilted his hips to let gravity assist Mycroft's depravity. "Hmm?" was all Mycroft said, his eyes still trained between his legs, watching as his fingers pushed his come back into Sherlock.

"Are you always like this?" Sherlock wondered, a little excited that his big brother may have kinks to discover.

"Not usually, but I've seen it done and I now understand the appeal."

"Seen it done?"

At this, Mycroft broke out of his reverie, stopping his movements. "Porn, Sherlock. What did you think I meant?"

"I don't know, maybe you're into group sex, or a patron of a voyeur club, or something."

"I haven't gotten to where I am by being indiscreet."

"On the contrary, where you are right now is terribly indiscreet."

"There's only the two of us here. And in any case, you're worth the risk."

"I'm glad to hear you say that, because I don't think I'll be moving out now."

Mycroft beamed. "Nothing would make me happier. We'll talk strategy in the bath." He gave Sherlock a parting kiss, before heading to the ensuite.

Sherlock smiled as he watch Mycroft bend over the tub and start fussing with the water and bath accoutrements. Life, and love, was nothing but a series of choices; he knew that his choice, from now on, would always be Mycroft. Arising from the bed, he made his way towards the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks - I hope you've enjoyed this little story of mine! 
> 
> I'm going to take a break from writing for a few weeks because life calls, so drop me prompts in the comments and I'll maybe take a crack at them when I come back in December.
> 
> Love you all!

**Author's Note:**

> New WIP, who dis?
> 
> As always, leave a kudos if you've liked it or stay for a chat in comments down below. xxx


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